


The torn-up road.

by metu



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: 'cause im illiterate, Aged-Up Character(s), Hurt/Comfort, Introspection, M/M, Minor Character Death, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Not Beta Read, Tenderness, and by this i mean that i took the movies general plot maimed it and created this, but strange things still happen, gay tenderness to be specific, god's own country au, there's no actual magic in this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-24
Updated: 2020-07-24
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:48:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25495606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/metu/pseuds/metu
Summary: Adam takes a job, meets a boy, finds his place.
Relationships: Ronan Lynch & Adam Parrish, Ronan Lynch/Adam Parrish
Comments: 20
Kudos: 128





	The torn-up road.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [buginc](https://archiveofourown.org/users/buginc/gifts).



> _For Ume, happy belated birthday_  
> 
> 
> this is literally an open letter to the gay gods of tenderness and hand holding idk what to tell you.

> […] I would like to sleep  
> with you, to enter  
> your sleep as its smooth dark wave  
> slides over my head  
> and walk with you through that lucent  
> wavering forest of bluegreen leaves  
> with its watery sun and three moons  
> towards the cave where you must descend,  
> towards your worst fear [...]

\- _Variation on the Word Sleep_ , Margaret Atwood, from _Selected Poems II: 1976-1986_

The gravel crunches gently beneath his feet, hollow bird bones under the weight of a grown human being. It's almost dark, the sun leaving, kindly, its place to the ravenous clouds that engulf the moon. Adam sighs, apparently, he's the only one noticing the ominous sound the rocks on the country road make, or the fact that, besides the lonely lamppost standing by the bus stop, the only source of light – that feels like life, that warms his face – is currently bleeding dry. He helps an old lady down the steps, and she thanks him with her croaky voice – she calls him love, and his chest aches with something akin to nostalgia – and after she's gone, he's left alone.

He checks his old, battered phone; he's early but only barely, and waits.

Metaphorically, Adam has been waiting his whole life for this, an inhabited space between his ribs finally starting to fill again. A new chance, perhaps. He’s accepted the job offer out of desperation, his experience with cattle and sheep is limited, but he can handle himself around engines and hard work is not something he's afraid of; he figures a hand is always welcomed.

Sitting down, Adam looks around and decides there is nothing very different than where he grew up: same dusty benches, even the identical road sign, he left one place just to end up in its twin; he smiles ruefully, Adam hopes there won't be the copy of his father waiting outside the local pub to shout profanities at him.

The sun had long finished its ellipse and the ghastly artificial light gives the early autumnal atmosphere an unsettling undertone. He remembers a line from a poem, studied long ago in high school, about the hope of a new beginning just after the cold season, metaphors of death and rebirth, the circle of life, his father out of prison and his mother not speaking to him. Looking at his phone again, Adam realizes ten minutes have passed already, and there are no signs of anyone showing up any time soon to pick him up. He stretches his legs before him, might as well get comfortable, he thinks, and burrows in his threadbare scarf, which is probably older than he is. His knees pop loudly in the silent countryside, somewhere a dog barks, the telltale sound of someone approaching, and a pair of headlights flicker before him. No wonder he didn't hear the car, Adam scratches his deaf ear, in a vain attempt to admonish it for not doing its job properly, and then stands up.

A handsome man exists the truck, his shirt is wrinkled and his jeans are not as dirty as he expected. He looks out of place, the village too dusty for his pristine face and his well-groomed hair. Adam sighs, again, but for total different reasons, this time.

“Parrish?” the man asks, his voice is deep and rich, almost diplomatic. It sounds more like an order than a question. Adam wonders what a man made of cement has to do with mud and dirt.

“Adam, yes. Mister Lynch?”

“Call me Declan, come on in, I'll show you around on the way to the Barns.”

A handshake, Adam feels like he made a deal with the devil. He puts his duffel bag in the back of the truck, and as he enters he notices the clean but worn insides, the smell of cigarettes and liquor still lingering on the seats. Adam feels sick, and something on his face must change, because Declan gives him a funny look, asking if the journey was all right.

“All right, yeah.” Adam says, looking out of the window.

“That's good.” Declan takes a turn and they move away from the bus stop.

“The town's small, nothing more than a pub and a few shops. If you want to get any sign of life you'll have to take the bus for the city, it passes every morning at six, only one bus stop, so you won't miss it. Or you can take the car, but there's no guarantee my stupid brother won't need it, I told you about Ronan, right? - Adam nods, if Declan finds it odd that he’s favouring his right side he doesn’t mention it - Anyways, every Sunday we go in town, for mass, don't know if you're catholic, but it's family tradition; in any case, you're welcome to join us.”

Adam silently listens, the gentle slope of the hills becoming steeper every turn they take. The road is uneven, the truck old, and his spine is already hurting. Declan says something else, about another brother who's at boarding school, and he feels his eyelids heavy with days worth of exhaustion.

“Any questions?” the car stops at a crossroad, one way going even higher and another following the path the hills-now-almost-mountains make. Declan takes the latter, big hands on the steering wheel. Adam can see they're calloused, but the nails aren't dirty and they're well kept.

“What will I have to do?” he asks, shifting on the car seat and gripping the seatbelt. His nails are chipped, his hands rough and Adam feels strangely self conscious about his cheap shoes and coat.

“Anything you can help with, really. I manage the business, God only knows my brother's shit with finance, but Ronan can't do everything alone and with winter coming up we'll need to move the cows. You any good with cattle?”

“I can manage.”

“Alright, Ronan will be an ass, just 'cause that's what he is. Don't worry about him, he'll get over it. Ah, right, I forgot, we've got an auction coming up next Wednesday, see if you can go with him.”

Adam nods, again, he doesn't really know what to say beside _yes_ and _alright_ , Declan seems to possess the whole entirety of the world's vocabulary, leaving him mute in respectful silence. They stop again, this time for good, in a courtyard. As Adam exits the car, the gravel gives out, the same faint noise as when he got out of the bus. The farmstead is not very big, but he can see the cowshed just next to it and the figure of a man lit up from behind.

“I'll show you your room, there are spare blankets in the wardrobe, since the furnace is broken and the stove is in the kitchen.” Declan shuts the truck door violently and passes him his bag, which Adam takes with a mulled thanks.

“Ronan! - Declan shouts – This is Adam.” the man in the light raises his head and then turns rudely around, walking straight into the house and slamming the door behind him.

 _Ah, that's what he meant,_ thinks Adam. Declan sighs, looks at him and then nods with his head; they start walking in silence.

“Nice house,” Adam says, just to speak, to say something, and Declan smiles lopsidedly, giving him a shrug. He closes – this time gently, with something akin to respect – the door, locks it, and then points to the stairwell that fits amongst two bookshelves.

“Your room is upstairs, second door to the right. Bathroom's the third, the plumbing's not great, but it does its job.”

“You said the heater is broken, right?”

“Yeah, haven't had the time to fix it. And Ronan's been busy with the cows.”

“I can take a look at it, if you want.”

Declan shrugs again, taking off his shoes with method, firstly untying the laces then slipping them off. Adam can't help but feel like this man is someone who shouldn't be here in the first place.

“If you can, that'd be great. Now go to sleep, I'll leave early tomorrow morning, try and keep up with Ronan, yeah?” With the same assertive tone Declan bids him goodnight and goes to what Adam assumes is the kitchen.

He goes upstairs, instead, and looks around the corridor. The lights are off and he can't make out every detail, but he can see a few photographs on the white walls, some painting of the scenery, the ones that are too anonymous to be either liked or disliked. Hung above the door to his room a crucifix, detailed and bleeding, Adam remembers faintly something about Catholicism and going to church every Sunday and he shivers, he doesn't know if it's because of the cold or the thought of choosing willingly to attend mass.

The second door to the right has been left ajar, no key in the lock but he figures he doesn't have a lot to hide, so it doesn't bother him. The bathroom's door closed, and Adam can hear the water running, hiccuping occasionally and he wonders just how bad the plumbing must be.

As he enters the room, switching the lights on, he sees a tiny desk, a tinier bed and a window, its glass hyaline with age. The wardrobe is old, made of plywood and as he sits on the bed it creaks so loudly, Adam fears it won't hold him up.

He drops his bag in front of him, takes off his shoes – not like Declan, he does it the way people with too little time do it – and wonders whether he feels like unpacking, undressing or bypassing all of that, just fall asleep dressed in sweaty and dusty clothes.

The water has stopped, he realizes, Adam sits up straighter, and decides he will wash his face before changing clothes, figuring it can't hurt if he stopped wallowing in his puddle of bad thoughts and sweat.

On the threshold he sees what must be Ronan's back entering his own room, a whirlwind of black and red skin, the door closes vehemently and Adam enters the bathroom with the intention of not getting involved too much with this family of outlandish characters. He didn't ask about their parents, he figures they're already sleeping and probably too old to help with the labour. It doesn't concern him, that much he figured way before accepting the job, one difficult family is enough, already.

He washes his face, quickly, not sparing a glance at the foggy mirror, and returns to his room, changing clothes mechanically and killing off the light. The moon slips through the curtains, white and probably chosen with care by someone who loved their house and their sons.

Adam falls asleep quietly, his bones aching of some old pain, his heart not yet in the right place.

* * *

Someone is rapping at his door, Adam never thought someone could manage to make a knock sound rude, but whoever is currently tapping at the wood-frame has definitely achieved that result. He sits up, stretching his spine and cracking his neck, his good ear starts ringing and his eyes are having some difficulties in focusing on something but he opens the door nonetheless.

“Declan said you can fix the heater.” A gruff voice says. Ronan, Adam's mind supplies.

“Good morning – he replies, because he's nothing if not petty – I probably can, yes.”

Ronan rolls his eyes, crosses his arms and steps on the side, a silent invitation – impolite exhortation, more like, Adam remarks in his head – to find the heater and fix it.

“Well, you better do it, 'cause I'm tired of fucking freezing in the shower.”

Adam wants to ask why they haven't just called an electrician, then he wants to remind Ronan that he doesn't actually know where the furnace is, let alone if they have the right tools to fix it in the first place, and figuring that's a better comment to make, he just does that.

Ronan shrugs, like Adam's asking the most stupid question he could have ever asked, and says the heater is in the garage obviously, and that of course they have the right tools.

“Okay then, I would like to go to the bathroom, first. Is Declan still here?”

At the mention of his brother, Ronan seems to grow even more annoyed at Adam, he scoffs and mutters something that Adam deciphers to be a who knows before the other one turns his back and walks toward the stairs. What yesterday Adam thought to be just shadows reveals to be a giant tattoo on the entirety of Ronan's back, hardly hidden by his well worn tank top. Adam decides to ignore the knots forming in his stomach, preferring to focus on how dumb Ronan must be, _if he just dressed up in warmer clothes he wouldn't freeze every night_ , his mind provides.

He gets ready with a vacant mindfulness, on automatic control, and once he's downstairs he notices the difference in temperature and the general cosiness of a place that showed its years, but remained full of life. As he enters the kitchen he sees the half empty coffee pot and a chipped mug, he doubts Ronan left it there for him, but he still fills it and drinks the almost cold liquid in one sitting; it doesn't taste good, but he doesn’t think he ever had good coffee once in his whole life, what with the whole ordeal of living in a trailer park and always-too-early wake up calls, which turned into never-enough-time and his stomach churning and revolting.

Outside the air is brisk, his knuckles immediately turn reddish with cold and the ache deep in his bones sets in the way he knows will mean that not even a boiling shower assuming he will be able to fix the boiler, will take out the frozen feeling out of his body. The garage is really a sad excuse for a shed built out of scrap metal, with an oxidized roof and a rattling door, that looks about to turn to dust under his hands. He enters silently, out of habit, inhaling the smell of gasoline and what he hopes is manures and not a decaying body hidden behind the tractor parked inside. The toolbox is there, too, along with several boxes classified as _books_ , and _silverware_ and _Christmas lights_ , all chalky with age and waterlogged by the close proximity with the ground. Adam sighs one of those breaths that leave your body unintentionally, and picks the corroded box in his hands, still numb with the cold; he approaches the boiler, another obsolete thing that has seen better days, and a surge of ill-advised sympathy overflows his knotted intestines. He wonders whether this impulsive choice of his will result in another dramatic failure, if he’s just destined to fall for handsome boys with eccentric names a tad too posh, then he tightens a valve and the creaky water pipes emit an appalling noise.

The moment Adam’s outside a gust of wind hits him and he sees Ronan’s dark, shaved head looking out of the window. His eyes are set in a scowl, light blue like stained glass or a mountain pond. 

“Managed to fix it?” Ronan shouts, watching him as if his sole presence was besmirching the scenery. Adam is used to those kind of looks, too tired to get apprehensive over the way a brash boy is staring at him. 

“It’s not worse than it was before, that I can tell you” Adam shouts back, wincing at the way his voice cracks from disuse and disliking the insecure fold it takes, his accent lilting at the end of every sentence like a sharp blade.

Ronan obviously doesn’t care, or at least pulls a neutral enough face that Adam can’t really decipher the intention behind it, besides its obviously crude meaning, shrugs and makes that movement, the up-and-down of his broad shoulders, appear rude, too. He shuts the window and Adam is left at the centre of the courtyard, chickens cackling and the moist air curling the hair at the back of his neck. He’s younger, in that moment, feels as lost as he first felt at eighteen, out of school and only a threadbare jumper on his skinny arms protecting him from the bitterly cold atmosphere of the courthouse. His knees are still knobbly, his hair the same straw blond that was his mother’s, the golden complexion of his skin hidden behind the sickly blue bruises under his eyes. 

He moves out of the memory, feeling very much like an unwanted bug inside someone shoe, and enters the house, trying to dislodge the bothersome stiffness out of his chill-rigid muscles. Ronan is nowhere in sight, and normally he wouldn’t try to search for a person who clearly neither likes him nor wants to collaborate, but Adam hates the stillness of not having something to do, so he walks all the way to the kitchen and then he takes the angular stairs two steps at a time. He reaches the second floor and Ronan is there, pulling a sweater over his undershirt. The boy ignores his presence, like Adam’s just another humidity stain that one day appeared along hundreds of others, but when he looks at him, sharp eyes, the knot in his belly moves up and down, then Ronan mutters something that he probably would have heard had it not been for his deaf ear.

“What?” Adam asks, trying to keep his voice as monotone and detached as he did when he testified against his father.

“I _said_ \- Ronan repeats with the venom of a snake who’s losing its patience - I don’t need any help with the cattle, you any good with car engines?” he looks ruffled, Adam remembers Declan’s words about his brother and his distaste for mutual support, and shrugs his shoulders (not as broad as Ronan’s, but definitely more bony).

“I used to work as a mechanic.” he says and Ronan arches a bushy eyebrow, eyes full with what Adam can only assume is contempt.  
  
“That doesn’t answer the fucking question, does it.” 

Adam smiles, because he enjoys being difficult he says _yes, although you have to be more specific_ and Ronan looks put out, if not by the smile, by the easygoing intonation his voice has got. Adam might not look the part, but he’s comfortable in his own body, as bruised and injured as it is, another result of having too much pride and not enough _anything_ to show it, and is not easily put out by a person who’s encircled by self-appointed barbed wire.

“A friend of mine, he got a shit car, says its vintage but it really is just a waste of space and petrol, you think you can look into it?” 

“I can try”

* * *

Mornings in a place with no clocks felt like a primordial quagmire of unknown tangents and coordinates, Adam would wake up and Declan wouldn’t be there, Ronan would be outside with the cows, kept like a secret only he could be witness of, leaving Adam to himself, drinking dregs of cold coffee from a steel cup. So passed three days of a velvet miasma that didn’t leave place for contemplation, he was trying to fix the car parked behind the shed, an orange Camaro that Ronan called the Pig, which had seen its last and better days long ago, with a lot of efforts and not an ounce of gratification. 

Ronan insisted on him trying to fix it, and Adam was starting to be aware of the fact that this was probably a distraction, meant to keep him away from whatever Ronan did with the animals all day. 

Lunches and dinners were a quiet affair, Declan was out most of the day, leaving early and coming back late in the night, the two brothers seemed to dislike being in the same room at the same time and contact was to be avoided at all costs. Adam didn’t think any of it, and his days passed with oily fingers and dull headaches, hidden behind an engine or a flat tire, or the damned plumbing that was falling apart, quite literally. 

Then Wednesday came, with the flurry of flightless birds trying to escape a starving wolf, with Ronan rapping viciously against what, in the last four days of semi-civil cohabitation, became his door frame.

“Get up.” he says, curtly. Adam’s throat is parched, sun-dry. The sun was barely peeking through the east-mountains, the sheer curtains unable to hide its rays. He remembers something about an auction, moving his lanky legs, the jut of his ankle-bones just on the verge of grotesque, successfully getting out of the low bed without the ominous crack of his spine being too loud. 

Adam hears a sharp intake of breath, and is sure that it’s not his, but by the time his tired eyes can focus on something that is not the faded wood panels of the wardrobe, Ronan has moved past the door, down the stairs, and is probably already starting the other car that Declan mentioned the first day.

He slips on his shoes already laced up and smells: burnt toast, cold coffee, rain clouds fat with exasperation. The iterative movements of getting a cup, putting on his jacket, covering his ruddy and almost calcified hands with ratty gloves keep his mind occupied and empty. He hops in the car, a black BMW, obviously well kept and liked by its owner, and wonders at the unlikeliness of his position in the world.

“How are we going to get the cow back here?”

“Cow?” Ronan asks back, while he revs the car, the pitch of his voice just loud enough over the static silence of the engine for him to hear. His hands and his brother’s are different in every sense, where Declan is tidy, Ronan is gruff, his nails are bitten and the flesh around his left thumb looks mangled, like a stray dog gnawed it out to the point of consuming it, Adam thinks, another bite and he might see the bone, the sinew structure of his tendons. Ronan’s arms flex, and they’re on the road.

“We’re not going to buy a cow.”

Adam cocks his head to the side, turning just so, moving his eyes following the muscle of the forearm, all the way to his neck ligaments, a murky swirl of the back tattoo almost visible from where the collar of Ronan’s jacket meets the jut of his jaw. Breathe in, breathe out, the _we_ swaying heavily like a lure from his bottom lip.

“What are we going to buy, then?” Adam decides to take the bait hanging from the other’s mouth.

“We are not going to _buy_ anything, we’re selling some old crap my dad left lying around.” 

The lopsided slope of the hills turns gentler, less caricature drawn and more fine line-art, and the silence overflows inside the vehicle like a dip in the ground on rainy days. Adam, once again, decides he doesn’t want to know, forces himself to keep the box closed like Pandora should have had, and leaves Ronan to his reserved laconism. Adam likes mysteries as much as the next person, he understands the call to the unknown and, in another life, he would probably have enjoyed dreaming about being a detective, or something of the like; in this one, though, he doesn’t have a college degree, all the money spent for the attorneys and the hospital bills. Ronan steers the wheel with the inattentive diligence of someone who appreciates driving and is used to the feeling of it, a look of deliberate concentration in his eyes, a hand threw haphazardly over the gear shift. They don’t talk, at some point Ronan decides to turn the radio on and Adam forgets the polite need to have small talk with strangers. The journey isn’t long, Ronan stops the car and seems to recoil a little; once he exits, the vulnerable expression Adam could swear appeared for a fraction of time on the other boy’s face is completely gone. His shoulders are set, a hard line, a perfect parallel of the four walls of the auction house, its windows dirty, the iron gate open. Outside, there’s a garden: four trees, one single leaf still enduring the struggle of sticking to the branches as green as new, the others different shades of reds and oranges, some bushes, all dead. It feels, and looks, more like a mortuary than anything else. 

Adam follows Ronan, two steps behind, he stuffs his hands inside the pockets of his jacket, burrows in its collar, tries not to ogle at the old ladies chatting in front of the gate and wonders just what the father of the Lynch brothers might have left _lying around_ that could interest rich old widows. He sees a sign mentioning some paintings he distantly remembers from a class in high school, stops and considers. 

“Was your father an artist?”, Adam asks, curiosity eventually winning. He catches up with the other boy. Adam’s taller, his legs are longer, but it seems that his steps are just a little too short, his pace slower.

Ronan shrugs, his eyebrows furrowing and shoulder rising all the way to his ears.

“Art dealer” is the gruff response, and then shuts his mouth, signs something at the front door and sits in the back, the last seat of the last row. Adam secretly imagines this peculiar boy sitting in front of an altar, and then pushes the thought inside a locked cupboard inside of his treacherous brain, riddled with aches, and sits next to him.

* * *

There’s a forest, just outside the Barns. Declan says it’s not anyone’s property, so in the summer, when there’s three of them, the Lynch brothers, usually take down a tree to make firewood, Adam has figured, in these five days, that the farmstead doesn’t host any mother, nor father, a puzzle piece on a board that’s almost empty. 

At the end of September the trees are dressed in vivid colours, some leaves still spring-like, looking as if they’ve just sprouted. Ronan sometimes disappears there for hours, while Adam is still outside, trying to fix the left car door, that doesn’t want to open. The repairs are tedious work, and he mostly doesn’t have the right tools, nor the spare parts, but he finds he’s enjoying it, just a riddle to solve, in which he doesn’t have to worry about other people, and he’s getting payed, too.

Adam has just finished washing his hand with the hose outside the garage when Ronan emerges from the woods, his cheeks flushed and his breaths forming little clouds of condensation. It’s Friday, Declan will be outside all day, driving all the way to the city to bring Matthew home; it’s, apparently, tradition, Adam remembers the crucifix and the church, is uncomfortably aware of Ronan’s hands closed in prayer.

Adam straightens his back, the wind is sweeping his hair and chafing his lips, it travels all the way through the cracks of his body and sets with an ominous sound inside his knees. Ronan says something, he doesn’t exactly scream but he’s perfectly angled, his left side toward him, that he can’t hear. Adam points at his head, shakes it, and approaches him.

“You deaf or something?” Ronan scoffs, the moment he’s near him.

“Yes, actually, from my left ear” Adam deadpans, it’s water under the bridge, a very precarious bridge he doesn’t want to cross ever again, but he’s not as prideful as he was at sixteen. Ronan looks a bit put back, like he didn’t expect an outright answer from him, rightfully so, considering that Adam hasn’t been the most verbose person either. 

“I asked if you managed something with that shit car, over there.”

Adam shrugs, says _I’m trying, but it looks like an almost lost cause_ , Ronan evidently (even though he still refers to the car as _shit_ and _crap_ and several different variations of the word _fuck_ ) doesn’t like the answer, because he closes his expression, a steel veil over his face. He wonders just who’s the owner of the orange Camaro, who could leave a dying carcass of a car there, in the middle of the hills-almost-mountains, and forget about it. Adam doesn’t ask, but watches with keen attention the way Ronan’s eyes shift from the incriminated ear, to his nose, all the way down to his hands, that are now fidgeting. He recognizes something in the way his gaze acquires a different edge, but doesn’t say anything, doesn’t think it’s his place.

A flock of blackbirds raises with an allegro rhythm from the forest, and the murky tension between them is broken.  
  
“I need to feed the cows, Declan won’t be back till late this night.” As always it looks like saying his brother’s name physically pains him.

“D’you need any help?”

Ronan looks personally offended, scoffs, as usual, and shoulders past him, all the way to the cattleshed, behind the main house. Adam ponders his chances of getting punched and decides that following Ronan is better than entering a house where he doesn’t belong.

There is a certain ease with which Ronan moves, his arms flex with the weight of the bucket full of feed, and the cows seem comforted by his presence. There are only four animals, all dark brown and seemingly young, he knows that one is pregnant and that the calf will be sold once weaned, or so Declan had said, while Ronan was trying his best at ignoring his brother while watching something on the TV. The building is warm enough, almost stuffy, once Ronan turns around and extends an arm, asking for another bucket, Adam decides to forego the relative cleanness of his jacket, and leaves it on the ground. 

He brings the bucket, wheat and oats and some other green leaves he doesn’t recognize, and starts feeding the other two cows. Ronan glances at him, all sharp angles and mean looks, decides he can’t possibly fuck up this simple task and leaves him at it, while he takes what looks like a mop and starts pushing around some muck. 

They spend most part of the evening in placid silence, until the sky darkens and the cows start to fall asleep bundled up near the heater.

Ronan closes the gate, shuts the light, and guides him to the main house with hunched shoulders, but his expression is clear, for once. 

* * *

Matthew is a bright thing, young and exuberant; he doesn’t look like the other two Lynch brothers, he has blonde curls and the pudgy face of when teenagers are just molting in their adult bodies. Adam is swarmed by curious questions, _where-are-you-froms_ and _how-old-are-yous_ , but he doesn’t feel pressured by the childish persistence of the younger Lynch, and the words come out easily. The atmosphere is relaxed at breakfast, Adam never sticks around long enough, preferring the frustration of the inconveniences the Camaro offers than the murdering looks Declan e Ronan sometimes throw each other, but Matthew’s presence works as a gentle riptide, that breaks the thunderous wave of the older brothers and pierces them together, finds an escape route and saves everyone from shouting matches and thrown plates. 

Ronan seems to look at Matthew the way very proud parents look at their children, or so Adam thinks, and he finds he doesn’t entirely loathe the rumbling feeling that settles in his stomach at the sight of blue eyes softening. Matthew wants to see the chickens, apparently he named each and one of them, then he wants to feed the cattle and he spends the best part of the morning talking to the pregnant heifer with Ronan. Adam is inside, trying to fix the leaky faucet while Declan sits at the kitchen table and types with swift fingers something on a computer keyboard. Silences with Declan are never tense and crowded of words not said, Adam enjoys the presence of the eldest Lynch, even though they rarely spend any time together. 

“I think the sink won’t be dripping anymore.” Adam says once he’s standing upright, a wrench in one hand, a dishrag in the other.

“Thanks, I know this wasn’t really in the job description, but we really needed a handyman”

He waves a hand in front of his face.  
  
“Don’t worry, I think your brother might have a fit if I touch one of the cows, so.” 

“Ronan’s a stubborn dickhead, he’s overprotective, that’s all. I’m sorry he’s been rude to you but at this point I’d find it weirder if he wasn’t, so don’t take it personally. If he’s too much tell me, we’ll fight and he’ll stop, just. Don’t expect an apology. You’re fine, though, aren’t you?”

More questions than answers.

“Yeah, I’m alright, thanks.”

The conversation is left hanging, it looks as if Declan wants to say something else but doesn’t know to approach the subject, so Adam sits down next to him, his hands dry, hangnails pestering his fingers like flies on a rotting fruit.

“You wanna come with us to mass, tomorrow?” 

Adam doesn’t want to, not exactly. He never was very religious, even when he had all the excuses to be, he dislikes the concept of predestination and it’s not like him to put faith in something he doesn’t know will answer him, but he also doesn’t want to spend Sunday morning in a place that reminds him of family and warmth.

“Yeah, all right.” 

That night, while Matthew is busy in his room and Declan is outside on the phone, Adam and Ronan are alone, watching the TV host of a game show declame the rules. Ronan is thrown across an old armchair, legs bent at an awkward angle that Adam is sure can’t be comfortable, and he’s mindlessly gnawing at the skin of his left thumb, while sometimes snorting something similar to a laugh. 

Adam looks at him, a gangly symphony of open chords that shouldn’t sound well put, but he feels like rejoicing with _hallelujahs_ and _hosannas_. He knows, rationally, that this is mostly physical, Ronan is beautiful in the way stars are: distant and pretty, as a concept, yet seering and taking everything with them once they decide to implode, or explode, or whatever it is that stars actually do, Adam doesn’t remember and doesn’t care to pursue the metaphor any further, for the sake of his mental stability. He also knows that this is a matter of time, in three months he will have found another job in another village and someone else will fit the empty, chimerical shape of the handsome farmer’s son. 

He bids Ronan goodnight, who looks at him startled. _See you tomorrow_ , Adam says, Ronan doesn’t answer, but his face is contorted in a confused manner, and when he opens his mouth Adam is already upstairs.

* * *

_Alright_ , thinks Adam, nursing a very bad migraine that spreads like wildfire from the back of his eye sockets all the way through his brain, the back of his neck. Ronan is, well, he has been forced to bring him to the pub, so Declan has demanded, so he is in a foul mood. The whole deal had included a very hushed conversation between the older brothers, while Matthew, after receiving the holy communion and kneeling and praying, Adam thinks, was telling him just how wonderful it was to have him, really, since Declan is about to go bald because of the stress and Ronan could use a friend that didn’t moo. Adam didn’t consider them friends, but he didn’t deny the statement, not only out of kindness, but also because some elderly lady was throwing them dirty looks and she looked very close to shushing them, which would have been mortifying at seventeen, a death sentence at twentythree.

Declan took Matthew with him, something that Ronan didn’t like, and now Adam is sitting next to him, a full pint of what looks like white vinegar that he won’t drink and a boy, probably even more sour than whatever the barkeeper put in front of him. He didn’t enjoy sitting, standing up, kneeling, and then sitting again, but the atmosphere in the pale church had been relaxed, not like the violin-string tension that was now vibrating in the few centimeters that separated Adam from Ronan, who, turns out, isn’t in the mood to slosh around the pity party he created for himself, so he gets up without saying a words and, probably, goes to the bathroom. 

“You the boy working for the Lynches?” someone asks, not even five minutes later, their voice ringing loud and clear among the murkiness of the pub.

“Er, yes that’s me.” Adam says it more like a questions and turns his head towards a very tiny woman, curly hair and dark skin, with an assertive look on her face. She’s pretty, there’s a softness to her face that is not damaged by the wrecked surroundings, her dungaree dress covered with colourful patches.

She produces a humming sound, raises an eyebrow in question, evidently amused by the insecure tone Adam’s voice had taken, then proceeds to sit next to him, orders another pint, all done with a scrutinizing gaze that makes Adam feel as if he’s being vivisected. He knows his ears are red, and he can’t blame the alcohol because his beer is untouched in front of him, a monitum of his own asininity. 

The odd-dressed girl doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even acknowledge him until Ronan returns with an even angrier look than before. If after the function he looked livid, now his face is contorting and the angry lines on Ronan’s forehead are becoming the moats of a crumbling castle that’s about to fall down.

“Sargent.” spits Ronan, with the same venom he uses to refer to Declan on a bad day.

“Lynch.” is her even, angelic answer, her voice not wavering once. She, _Sargent_ Adam’s mind supplies rather unhelpfully, raises her head and looks at Ronan the way Roman emperors would have looked upon gladiators.

“Haven’t seen your dirty mug around lately, I was starting to wonder if you finally decided to disappear in the woods and live as a hermit.” she snarls.

Something very funny happens on Ronan face in the span of a few seconds, first the _I-just-ate-a-lemon_ look reappears strong and new, next his ears ( _his ears_ Adam reiterates, because Ronan apparently behaves exactly like a wild dog) seem to flatten down, and _then_ a face splitting grin forms. He raises his pint and cheers to the girl, while she rolls her eyes, she turns towards Adam and extends her hand, her cheeks shining thanks to the poor lightning in the room.

“Blue, nice t’meet ya.”

A peculiar name, but Adam is not surprised that this peculiar girl has the name of a colour.  
  
“Adam, uh… Adam, yeah” the words stumble outside of his mouth the same way they did when Declan first introduced himself, and Adam cringes a little bit, recoiling with the force of his embarrassment and the general bad luck that has been following him the moment he set foot outside of the bus. Figures.

“Alright _Adam-uh-Adam_ , what brings you here? Are you a criminal on the run or something?” her eyes twinkle the same way the ones of a mischievous child would the moment before a well planned prank would unfold. Ronan, on the other side, is biting at the skin of his left thumb, a lost look replacing the anger he saw there before.

Adam looks away.  
  
“Nothing much really, I needed a job, that’s all.”  
  
“That’s all, he says.” Blue repeats, her eyes rolling mocking him.

“This one is a witch, Parrish, you’d best not tell her anything” Ronan mutters, his beer is finished and he’s nodding to the bartender for a refill.

“And you’re a dickhead full of unresolved issues, if Adam wanted good company he would have fled the county the moment he saw your bald head.”

“It’s _shaved_ , fuckmunch.” 

Blue turns to him, mouths _bald_ again, and grins at him. Adam is a bit disoriented by their dynamics, it seems Ronan tolerates her presence best than anyone else’s, but he only has Declan, Matthew and himself as basis for comparison, so he doesn’t think he really has much room to judge; then again, Ronan doesn’t strike him as a person who enjoys the company of others, in general.

“How long will you be here, then?”

“Three months, until Christmas, I already have another job up north.” it’s more information than Adam is willing to part with, but something in the way Blue’s eyes are kindly set on him makes him forget that he is supposed to be a private person.

“Well, my family owns the antiquary in town, you can’t miss it ‘cause it’s the only one there, if you ever need a break from this caveman here, especially when he’s in one of his moods, you’re welcome to say hi, even though he really needs another friend.” Blue pauses for a second, her voice thrills loud and clear but the other patrons aren’t looking at them, so Adam guesses it’s just another peculiar characteristic of hers. She looks at Ronan, who, out of the corner of his eyes, catches her gaze but before she can continue Ronan slams his palm on the counter, as if intercepting what she was going to say.

“Sargent, do shut up.” cuts Ronan’s voice, less clear, but louder.Blue looks at Ronan, her eyes sharp again and what feels like a weird concoction of pity, shame and anger deep inside her gaze. She turns towards him and says, _You didn’t know what I was going to say_.

Ronan looks angrier than he did before, but Blue doesn’t seem too worried about it.

“You always say the same thing, I don’t want anyone’s pity, just leave it!”

“I _thought-_

“You _didn’t_ think, ‘cause you never fucking do! It’s not your problem, I never wanted it to be your problem in the first place, so fuck off!” 

“It became my problem the moment you started acting like this, Ronan!” somewhat a very general conversation has turned in something too specific for anyone’s comfort. They continue arguing, something about _anger issues_ is thrown, to which a _not my fucking therapist_ is the ready answer. There is a looming secret, one that has probably followed Adam since he put his feet on the gravel outside of the Barns, but that he’s yet to discover. He feels like an intruder, which he probably is, and also thinks that Ronan is about to say something very rude and mean to Blue, but he is proved wrong by the way Ronan shoulders arch towards his ears, he gets up, throws some bills on the counter and leaves. 

A few moments of shameful silence flow between Adam and Blue, then she sighs and turns to him.

“I’m sorry, I honestly thought you heard about it, but” she stops, bites her lower lip. Which doesn’t make sense, then she says “You better go after him.”  
  
So Adam does.

* * *

The fight - Adam assumes it was a fight, but you can never be sure with people like Ronan - at the pub isn’t mentioned again, and Adam has to admit that Ronan, for the past three days, had been putting up a great show of indifference, even better than what he was doing before that Sunday afternoon. After all, he reasons, why would Ronan be mad at him for something he, apparently, didn’t know, and still doesn’t. 

Adam is curious, of course he is, and even if he understands the importance of secrecy and the universal truth of minding your own business, he still hates being left in the dark, he just doesn’t know who, or more in general how, to ask. He could go directly to the source, and corner Ronan one of the evenings they spend together in front of the TV, but that would mean disrupting the very careful and unbalanced treaty they have somewhat both signed; he could ask Blue, or even Declan, assuming Declan _knows_ but it feels wrong, in a certain sense. As much as Ronan is a dislikable person, rude and unapologetic about it, Adam doesn’t exactly want to be the source of his anger, Ronan and he share this unwanted pride that gets the best of them, he understands.

In the end, the truth comes barreling down to him in the form of a very dusty stack of newspapers hidden behind two boxes full of screws and bolts that fell on his feet. The papers are dated a few years back, the humidity in the garage got the best of them and only certain words of the remaining articles are discernable, but all the headlines are some variations of _Murdered_ and _Killed_ and the name of a Lynch written in bold before all of those. Adam figured long ago that their parents must’ve been dead, or at the very least far away tucked inside a city house where the labour of the earth was no longer a toll on their bones, but he never thought of the words murdered and father to go together. He puts the newspapers back on the shelf, he doesn’t know why the Lych kept them, but Adam is once again reminded that this is not any of his business, he’s here to work and only a week has passed since he started. Adam takes the box with the bolts, he doesn’t remember why he went into the garage, but he remembers another leaky faucet (the one in the bathroom on the first floor) and grabs the wrench, too.

As he makes a beeline for the main house, Ronan, albeit involuntarily, intercepts him. He looks ruffled, in the composed way people who hate showing their feelings look ruffled, and his breath is creating translucent clouds of condensation at an alarming speed, almost as if he run all the way there. Adam stops in his tracks, cocks his head and almost asks if he is alright, but Declan’s car halts in the middle of the courtyard and the moment he closes the car door he starts screaming at Ronan, who has no qualms about shouting right back at him. 

Adam swallows and decides he doesn’t want to discover anything else, so he gently walks all the way to the bathroom and closes the door behind him, shutting away all the noise.

He kneels, then awkwardly crawls in an unbefitting manner to a man of twenty three years, and sees that all the bolts and most of the plumbing are rusty and clogged with limescale. It feels like the house is stuck in a hypothetical past where everything is left untouched for the sake of children’s memories, Adam thinks it’s quite sacrilegious of him to fix this faucet-turned-altar, but he’s been slowly working his way upstairs with the repairs, and he dislikes people shouting. He can hear the sound, muffled as if he’s underwater, of the two other men arguing. It probably has to do with what happened on Sunday, so Adam metaphorically shuts his ears and proceeds with caution in taking the rickety plumbing apart. He knows he shouldn’t dwell on it, at the end of the day it’s not like his family situation was heaven-like, what with his father in prison and his mother completely devoid of emotions, but he thinks he understand better the extraordinary amount of rage Ronan can fit inside his body. Adam counts in his head, and figures Ronan must’ve been a teenager when it happened, and the amount of media coverage, in a town so small, couldn’t have been good for the mental health of a young boy whose father just died. 

“Parrish, holy shirt are you deaf from the other ear as well?” Ronan’s raspy voice breaks his line of thought and he clunks his head against the cabinet as he tries to stand up.

“I- what? What is it?"  
  
“Declan wants me to go to another auction”

After a few seconds of Adam’s stunned silence Ronan puffs a petulant breath.

“And he wants you to tag along as the token guardian angel, so get up and take your coat.” 

So he gets up, and takes his coat.

The car ride, like the last time, is mostly silent, except for the fact that Ronan put on what Adam thinks was meant to be music but really sounded like a bunch of horses trampling over pans and pots of different sizes. Ronan seemed more relaxed, but the perennial frown on his brows never left its place. 

As they enter the auction house, with the same mortuary atmosphere, Adam actually looks around and notices more old, rich - and he’s not just assuming, because these people are evidently rich, fur coats and shiny leather shoes - people than the last time, and consequently looks at the art pieces: there is only three paintings, but all of them look kind of _too_ avant-garde to be appreciated by someone who had a general understanding of art thanks to high-school level classes.

“Was your- Adam clears his throat - were these all your father’s?” why not, he thinks, might as well throw the first stone to kill the elephant, _that’s not how it goes_ , he says to himself, but for lack of better similitudes he struggles with what he has.

Ronan looks at him, surprised, like he didn’t remember Adam was there with him. He nods. A week of barely talking to each other, but just existing together, had apparently tamed Ronan to the point that Adam doesn’t fear being bitten anymore.

“He, uh, he bought them a few years ago” is all he says, but looks like more words want to come out of his tight-lipped mouth. The purple, _or was it red_ , elephant shrinks to the size of a very big, well fed cat and Adam stops in his tracks, next to Ronan who is now sprawled over the last chair of the last row, like the previous time. 

He looks like an untamed mutt just waiting for the supple fingers of a careless child poking through the bars of its cage. He guesses that in this mess of metaphors and figures of speech, he might as well be the stupid boy who doesn’t stop at the hand and offers his whole arm.

“Is he- a pause, Adam only wants confirmation but Ronan knows what is coming, so he answers the silence.

“Yes, he was. He was murdered.” his response is dry, like he got used to the weight of the words in his mouth, and instead of annoying marbles underneath his tongue the meaning of _dead father, murdered_ becomes easy to pronounce like his own name.

 _Thank God for small mercies_ , Adam thinks, rejoicing over this simple confession that feels heavier than seven atmosphere over his whole body. He wants to say _I’m sorry for your loss, I’m sorry you were so young_ , he thinks it and conveys it through a curt nod and then he sits, right next to Ronan, both of their legs spread wide and their thighs separated by the width of an eyelash. It doesn’t feel like a solid bridge, but it’s a rope being thrown from the other side of the cliff.

* * *

On the Monday of the third week, following a weekend full of Matthew and a Sunday sermon on how to welcome prodigal sons back home, a gloomy yet warm day, they go grocery shopping. After the second auction (Declan told him, without batting an eye, that their father left twenty paintings behind, and they have been trying to sell them in batches), their time together has increased, but they still almost never talk. It’s peaceful and quiet, like Adam likes, and he doesn’t think he needs the extra closure of knowing _more_ about Ronan than he already does, but he finds out that, in the rare instances in which they _do_ talk, the other boy is, surprisingly, a witty interlocutor; their words flow back and forth, and Ronan never really loses his edges and sharp angles, but he also doesn’t hold him down with rash sentences. They converse idly, and when the exchanges turn too personal they stop, even though Adam guesses they could actually continue and not regret it later.

Now, though, there are a cart, a list and two steps that divide them, and while Ronan is muttering something that’s two thirds swear words and one curses, Adam muses over the smallness of grocery stores and how they all look the same, liminal spaces out of an architect’s dream. His eyes are fixated on the back of Ronan’s neck, covered partially by the jeans jacket that’s way too flimsy not to be second hand, and the tattoo peaking through, Adam doesn’t know what it is, is quite afraid of probing the territories of naked boys with their tattooed back, but then Ronan says _I’m going to get some beer_ and leaves Adam alone in between glass bottles of oil and tin cans of tomato sauce. He stops, because he doesn’t know what’s on the list, but also because Ronan is quite visible from where he stands, and the irrational fear of getting lost while shopping doesn’t bother him. Adam is still looking at the other’s back, while clenching and twisting his cold hands over the plastic bar of the cart.

“I’m ‘fraid you won’t be able to buy him, dude.” 

Adam splutters, almost slips with the cart, and turns on his feet to see Blue and another girl, taller but similar enough to be her sister, or at the very least related to her. She has the same curly hair and the same nose, and even if the mismatched clothes Blue seems to love wearing don’t appear on the other, she has the same unique taste in style, in the sense that she looks ready to join Travolta in _Saturday Night Fever_.

Blue rolls her eyes, and says something under her breath, then, “Hi, Adam, this is my cousin, Orla, she doesn’t understand basic human decency,” she quips at her with the joyful tone of people who grew up together and the word cousin translates to sister in his head, seeing how close they are to each other and the mirrored smiles they share, hidden by rolling eyes.  
  
Orla responds “I understand it fine, I just prefer a more direct approach than most.” she turns to him, then “Blue tells me you work for that meathead, there.”

“Er, yes I do,” he wouldn’t have said he works _for_ Ronan, exactly, but he doesn’t correct her.  
  
She makes an evaluating noise, cocks her head, all her brown curls bounce slightly, then shrugs and says _all yours_ before turning back going to the magazines rack, searching through newspapers. 

“Sorry about that.” Blue looks actually apologetic, Adam just hopes not to meet Orla when he’s alone.

“It’s… fine. How are you?”  
  
Blue laughs, she has a wicker basket in her hands, full of yogurt tubs and some packs of whole wheat pasta.

“I’m good, thank you. I - another one of her significant pauses, Adam has only been subject to three of them, but he feels like they won’t ever stop surprising him. He shakes himself the moment he realizes he’s thinking of Blue as a permanent fixture in his life, just like he’s been doing with Ronan for the past week.

“I wanted to ask you if everything was all right with… with Ronan, too.” she bites her lips, juggles her weight from the ball of one foot to the other, Adam doesn’t like the awkward tension between them.

“Uhm, yeah? I think so, he hasn’t tried to kill me yet, if that’s what you’re asking me.” 

They smile at each other, then Blue continues, “I just, I worry, as much I don’t want to, but we kinda grew up together, you see? Forced proximity and all of that, so.” she doesn’t elaborate further than that, but Adam can sum two numbers up correctly and he understands the deeper meaning of her sentence.

“I know you won’t stick here forever, - Adam also knew that, but hearing it almost hurts something deep in his belly, - and I’m not asking you to befriend the beast or anything like that, we barely know each other, just I know he may not look the part, but he wasn’t always like this and he _really_ needs to understand that people are not just here to fuck him over, you know, just try and- 

“Stop harassing him, Sargent.”  
  
Blue huffs, Adam yelps, it seemed like everybody loves creeping on him like birds of prey. Ronan deposits two packs of beer in the shopping cart, while looming over his shoulder. The startled look Blue had on her face is quickly replaced by a cheeky scowl, similar to what she had the first day they met.

“Orla is here, Lynch, you better doll yourself up before she sees your ugly jacket and decides it’s time for an intervention.” 

Adam doesn’t think any other threat to Ronan’s physical health would have worked the same way the mention of Blue’s cousin did on Ronan, because the moment her name was thrown into the equation, his face became pinched and disgusted, like a kick between his legs.

“That’s what I thought, well, bye Adam, - she looks at him significantly, then shifts towards Ronan - see you never again Ronan!” she waves them goodbye, their previous conversation left hanging haphazardly over ragged clothing lines that barely held themselves together. He probably won’t ever understand the left unsaid most people seem to enjoy so much.

“C’mon, Parrish, we need ham and bread.”

Ronan takes the cart with him and Adam follows.

  


* * *

  


He waits outside, two paper bags at his feet, the three of them under the shop’s awning trying to shield themselves from the upcoming rain. Ronan exits a few minutes later, after paying in cash and grunting something to the old cashier; plenty of the people Adam has met have been old, like this dusty and orange town in the middle of the most March-like September of his whole life is inhabited solely by geriatric souls that need a place to die. The trees and the birds are the only things that remind Adam of fall and the chill that settles once night falls (always earlier than the day before) forces him to search elbows deep in the white wardrobe in his room for the spare blankets Declan promised him. He still hasn’t fixed the heating, so he reasons he should work on that instead of focusing on the battered Camaro Ronan has thrown at him.

“We used to ride inside these carts,” starts Ronan, from out of nowhere. Adam looks at the rackety line of five shopping carts right in front of the shop, not a chain to lock them down, easy to steal if you were able to outrun the cashier. If everything has always been this static, Adam figures the same old lady that is now behind the register was there when Ronan and whoever was part of that _we_ were young enough to fit inside.

A devilish glint shines in the other boy’s eyes.

“Wanna try?”

“I already have a malfunctionin’ ear, I don’t really want to break my legs, too.” Adam picks up the bags and nods to Ronan, a _lead the way_. They make the short trek to the BMW in one of those sacred moments of stillness but he knows Ronan wants to ask, has been meaning to ask since he answered Adam’s question about his father. 

He thinks: it’s only fair, a father for another, and he doesn’t know what’s stopping him (perhaps the same pride that made him move away, avoiding problems over problems, burying them deeper every time they resurfaced) , but he doesn’t want to tell him, not until he outright asks. 

It’s weird, because out of all the people Adam knows, which admittedly aren’t a lot, he thinks Ronan would understand the best, if he just ever so casually said _Actually, my abusive father tried to kill me, almost succeeded and now here we are_ Ronan would allow that secret’s existence and take it with him in that forest he sometimes disappears into, scratch marks over his face and splinters in his hands. 

But still, Ronan doesn’t ask, and they don’t talk about it. Adam offers a branch.

“Blue told me you two are childhood friends?”  
  
Ronan snorts, bites the thumb of the hand that’s not currently preoccupied with holding up a paper bag full of groceries, and grants him a lopsided smile.  
  
“You can put it that way, if you want. Used to be three of us, her boyfriend’s all the way to Harvard studying history and shit. The Pig, the, uh, the Camaro is his.”

Adam offers a thoughtful hum, as he puts the bags in the back seats of the car he thinks over the words he wants to say “Tell your friend that the chances of getting his car back in one functioning piece are very slim.”

It seems he chose well, because even if Ronan’s chagrin is distorted and unnatural, Adam still finds it endearing and silently pushes this particular thought in a watertight box at the back of his brain.

“He’ll be devastated.”

  
  


* * *

A month passes and Adam works, most of the time, inside the house, fixing old appliances on his knees, hurting his back, the house is old and apparently the two brothers left it at some point to return at once. Sometimes, though, Ronan asks for his help with the cows. Ask is a presumptuous verb, he mutters _Parrish, the girls_ and Adam drops his screwdriver, or his wrench, towels clean his hands and follows the other in the animals shed, the pregnant one is the most coddled by the two, close to give birth. Declan always looks surprised when this happens, even though he rarely is home these days to witness the miracle. One evening, after Adam fixed them dinner, he jokingly says that he domesticated his brother, and Ronan gets a shade darker, leaves without finishing his food and shuts the door to his room. Adam feels irrationally bad, but when he is washing the dishes in the now repaired sink Ronan comes back down, reheats the pasta in the microwave and hunches over it, while Adam pretends to be scrubbing a particularly stubborn stain, he smiles to himself.

Some days are worse than others, meaning that Declan leaves early in the morning with a pained look and Ronan is in a nasty mood until mid-afternoon, when he reemerges from whenever he went and silently offers to make dinner, or to steady the ladder when he is trying to seal a rattling window. During those days they never talk, Adam reads, feeds the chickens and sometimes walks all the way to the other side of the pastures to fix part of the enclosure that has fallen down. Today is one of those days.

The view is nice, even if the middle of October starts to offer colder rushes of winds and dragon breaths. He watches the hills turn into mountains and gets to work, there is nothing he can really do all by himself, he needs better wood that won’t rot as easily and perhaps some metal wire that is not rusty, he tries to remember if he ever got his tetanus shots and decides a fence is not worthy losing a limb over, so he just puts some of the planks back and hopes for the best. Matthew showed him some pictures of how it used to be before he was born, a lot more cows, some sheep, too, Ronan and Declan with a bowl cut and missing teeth; then their mother had started to miss from some of the photographs as Matthew started to appear, so he closed the album and tucked it in its place on the warped shelf. 

One dead parents is a sad story, two, Adam guesses, are enough for a greek tragedy.

Part of the fence is back on when he spots Ronan walking on a steep hill with his hands in the pockets of his jacket and his nose buried in his sweatshirt; Ronan sees him too, because he stops in his tracks and just looks at him.

Adam offers a tentative wave, which is answered by a nod in his direction. Ronan waits a few more seconds before returning to his climb, and Adam takes them as an invitation. He leaves the toolbox near the now rebuilt fence, climbs over it and runs, catching up with Ronan. They reach a crossroad and Ronan steers them towards the path that descends into a forest, they walk side to side, arms brushing without heat or real comfort, but grounding nonetheless. The noises one would associate with the general idea of forest are missing from this one: not a bird, not even the rustling of the leaves. Adam finds it ridiculous, so he just watches Ronan’s face and the way his nose looks cold and his eyelashes are clumped together. Once the other stops in front of a stump of a tree Adam diverts his gaze.

“Is that… is that latin?” he asks as he gets closer to the stump.

Ronan offers a hum, still watching him. Adam crouches, back cracking and knees hurting. The words look old.  
  
“Did you carve this?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“You carved something in _latin_ on a stump?”  
  
“I went to a private school.”  
  
“Where they taught you latin.”

“Yes, I was quite good at it.”

“ _Caelesti sumus omnes semine oriundi_ ” he reads, probably butchering it, then turns to Ronan who is looking at him. He waits for the translation.

“We’re all heirs of a celestial seed. Lucretius.”

“Huh.” Adam says, standing up and looking around. The stump is in the middle of a clearing, green moss still grabbing onto trees that form some sort of circle that’s a bit too much on the side of _unnatural_ to comfort Adam.

Ronan gets closer, then, fallen leaves too still drenched in life to crunch under his combat boot-clad feet. 

“I used to come here, when everything was. Too much. After… after. Declan and my mother they coped as best as they could, my father was never at home but I used to think he was, I don’t know, I worshipped him. Declan never liked that, and I get it, now I do, ‘cus my father never cared for Declan as he did for me and-

Adam doesn’t interrupt, feels like he’s the witness of something he’s not worthy of seeing. Ronan gulps. He can't believe that a boy who's carved latin poetry onto a log is telling him his secrets.

“Sometimes it’s difficult to understand that the man you thought could do no harm was actually a piece of shit. Here, I used to come with booze and bad company and one night I just started carving fuck-knows-what and I figured it was better than getting drunk and throwing punches and- 

Ronan looks on the verge of tears and Adam just can’t bare the sight of him so devastated, so he says: “My father used to beat me up.”  
  
“What?”

“Where, uh when I was young, well _younger_ we used to live in a trailer park, we didn’t have any money. I worked two jobs and my father used to throw whiskey bottles at my head. My mother was too scared to actually say anything and she feared that if she called the social workers or, or whoever you call when your son is getting beaten by your husband, they would take me away and all her money would disappear. After a bad fight ‘cause he saw me kissing a boy, he threw me on the ground, hit my head on something sharp and my timpanus exploded,” Adam lets the story flow between them, doesn’t even notice the details he’s putting inside, what he decides to leave behind.

Ronan turns fully towards him, the trees as bystanders. He looks as angry as the devil.

“He’s in prison, now.” Adam amends. 

“Christ, Parrish, that’s fucked up.”

“And your murdered father isn’t?”

“No, yes, well yes, but,” they look at each other and they start laughing and laughing, a blasphemous sound surrounded by a strange circle of trees carved in latin. They almost bend over with the force of their laughter, bellies full of hungry worms that squirm and give birth to gentle emotions. The walls collapse, crumble over the weight of shared experiences and tears are at the corner of their eyes, but they’re not afraid of letting them fall anymore. The tide calms, cackling turns into chuckling turns into giggling and they are facing each other with snotty noses and dry lips.

Adam thinks, _he’s going to kiss me_ , and he’s right.

* * *

  
  


Ronan is evidently freaking out, because he leaps back like a coiled spring, but Adam has had practice with stubborn and prideful boys, he was one of them, so he doesn't allow it. He gently cradles the back of his head and brings their foreheads together, breathes in the hair he exhales. He kisses him again, quietly and softly, a slow crescendo of atomic particles finding their place in the universe. In the month he spent at the Barns time had never been something he considered: he woke up with the sun and went to sleep after Ronan turned off the TV, by the end of the second week the two of them were ushering cows outside and inside, feeding chickens and eating cold pasta together; now, he is kissing a boy in a forest with no sounds, a sharp, dream-like boy who scoffs at him and never says his first name, but who gives him one extra spoon of pasta every night, who always puts himself on Adam’s right side when their outside in the cold, watching the cows ruminate on what’s left of the grass, even when they’re not talking.

“We, we should go back.” Adam is shaking with the force of a collapsing nuclear power plant, his feet are freezing and the only thing he can think of right now is needing thicker socks.

Ronan nods, but doesn’t move, he is gripping the lapels of Adam’s jacket as if he’d been fighting rather than kissing. He realises, as he reminds himself of crucifixes and pale white churches, that Ronan might as well have done that all this time. Adam crushes his pride inside his fists and strokes the other’s temples with his thumbs, Ronan’s skull fits between his hands like a key inside its hole, he’s warm and his shaved hair wonderfully tickles Adam’s callused digits. 

“Hey,” he says, locking eyes with Ronan, smiling. His lips tingle because of the cold.

“Hey,” 

“We _really_ should be getting back, it’s freezing and this place gives me the creeps.”

“Fuck off.” 

Adam chuckles, because he doesn’t know what to do. Now that there he’s granted access to this limitless mansion, he’s wary of stepping anywhere, fearing the floor might collapse if he puts his feet somewhere he wasn’t meant to, some doors are still locked, but Ronan’s arms aren’t as tense and he’s gradually stepping back from him. His fingers linger on the end of Adam’s jacket, then he stands up straighter and sighs. 

Ronan still looks startled so he takes his hand, squeezes once, twice, bones and fingers slotting togethers, Ronan’s thumb is coarse and rough because the first layer of skin is quite literally missing from being bitten and gnawed, and tugs him towards the direction they came from. 

“You have to lead the way, I have no idea where I’m going.” so Ronan steadies himself, and they walk all the way back, attached to the side.

Once they reach the house the sun has begun to set, Declan isn’t at home, yet, Ronan says he might be spending the night outside, Adam doesn’t question on where or why.

They brush down the cows, put fresh hay on their beds and Adam checks to see if the heating inside the barn is still functioning and mentally pats himself on the back when he feels it warm, still. They don’t talk, not until they’re inside, shoes discarded and coats hung on the rack. Ronan goes into the kitchen and Adam watches the tendons of his neck contract and relax, he follows him and stops, hips and side at the door frame waiting for something to be said. 

“This doesn’t have to mean anything if you don’t want it to.” Adam decides to tear the curtain dividing them, offers an escape because Ronan doesn’t look like he knows what to do. 

“What?”  
  
“If, I just… if you want it to be a one time thing or-  
  
“Do _you_ want it to be a one time thing.”  
  
“Don’t put words in my mouth, I was just saying that, ‘cause you’re freaking out and I’d understand, no hard feelings.”

“I,” Ronan turns towards him, doesn’t correct Adam or says something like _I’m not freaking out_ , which would’ve been a lie, and then looks at his own feet.

“I don’t think I want it to be a one time thing.”

“You don’t think, huh.”

“Shut up.”

Adam stands up and closes the distance between them, Ronan is taller but he has the habit of hunching down, probably has bent his spine to the point of no return, and he’s also half sitting on the table, so up close he has to look down. He puts his hands over Ronan’s forearms, crossed over his chest, and pries them open with careful fingers, makes him hug him loosely; Adam’s had enough crises over self-imposed touch starvation dictated by the demon of internalised homophobia to know what it’s like, denying yourself something you want so badly it’s physically hurting you, like your stomach has suddenly decided to digest itself and all that’s left behind is the marrow inside your bones for the animals to eat. At least, he reasons, to him this was always something that had the face of his father, sometimes his own, to Ronan, it must’ve looked like patron Saints and priests, must’ve felt like eternal damnation.

“This is not, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but it’s not like I’m exactly…”

“Easy to like?” he jokes.  
  
Ronan looks affronted.  
  
“Parrish, I’m a fucking delight to be around.”

“Sure,” he shrugs, easily, then continues “We don’t have to do... anything different, yeah? It’s not like there are sets of rules to be followed. Does Declan know?”

“Does my brother know that I’m gay?”

“That’s what I’m asking, yes.” 

“It’s not like we speak to each other, he probably doesn’t,”  
  
“Will it be a problem if he discovers,” he takes his hand off from Ronan’s arm and gestures in the space between them, “this, us?”  
  
Ronan shrugs, again, Adam is discovering he doesn’t actually mind being patient if he can see how the other shrinks to himself under his gentle attention.

“It’s not like I care.” 

Adam rolls his eyes.

“I’m trying to set up some boundaries here, Lynch, like, y’know, real adults do.”

Ronan grunts, lower his gaze again and his fingers shift tenderly over Adam’s hips, under his open fleece jacket, pat down his flank and grip themselves, claw like, but not hurting, just under his ribs. Adam feels like his heart might be exploding. Ronan dislikes talking, verbalising what he’s thinking and putting it into the world, the emotions he has are amplified and true, but he rarely says anything, just tries as hard as he can to convey them through touches and looks, grunts and awkward guffaws that Adam grew fond of. Right now he’s trying to let himself go, Blue’s words resonate inside his cranium and Adam wants to be trusted by this phenomenal boy above everything else.

Then they hear the door unlocking and, grimacing, they split.

* * *

  


Saturday morning they spend in Adam’s bed, which is too tiny to fit him even when he’s alone, so Adam lays on Ronan’s chest, his deaf ear over the other’s heart; up this close he can pretend to feel it, expanding and contracting against his ribs, superimposed. They’re talking, _sottovoce_ , trying not to break the morning eerie and the silk cocoon they’ve built themselves, and also because Matthew and Declan are still inside, somewhere. Adam tells him about his obsession with the arthurian myths he’s had as a child, used to sneak inside the library to read until it closed. Ronan tells him about art and how he would like to deck Picasso in the face, then confesses him another secret.

Ronan has nightmares, apparently, has had them since he was a child, night terrors that made him insomniac. After his father died (his mother has not yet been discussed once, but it’s been barely a week of this new situation, Adam doesn’t feel the need to know everything at once) the oozy, venomous matter had taken specific shapes; they haunt him almost every night. When it was still dark outside, but closer to dawn than to dusk, Ronan woke him up, slotted beside him on the bed and, crouched behind Adam’s back, had fallen back into a fitful sleep; now that they’re plastered together, he doesn’t want to get up. 

“Have you tried-

“If you’re about to suggest fucking valerian or, or worse chamomille I _will_ push you.”

Adam snorts, cranes his neck until his nose hits Ronan’s jaw, he nuzzles it, feels the stubble he has yet to shave and closes his eyes.

“I was going to say a therapist, and we have to get up either way, so.”

Ronan doesn’t answer for a second, on of his hands is on the back of Adam’s neck squeezing occasionally, the other on his back, moving up and down over the thin fabric of Adam’s worn down coca-cola shirt.

“Declan has tried to make me go, thought seeing a shrink would help me, but I was sixteen and you know how traumatised sixteen year olds can be.”

“Yeah, I was one of them, too.”

“Saint Parrish a rebel,” he fake-gasps, both of his hands now on his back squeezing him tight, “who would've thought! I don’t think we can be together anymore.”

Adam giggles, sits up, as much as he dreads detaching himself from a boy this warm and silly, he feels as light as a cloud.

“We wouldn’t want to tarnish this virgin soul, would we.”

“Uh-uh, my virtues can’t be tainted by the likes of you.” they laugh, giggling and shushing each other because Matthew is sleeping in the other room and it’s still early, too early for any noise to be heard by anyone but them.

Adam kisses him then, bad breath and stubble, he doesn’t care. Ronan is so soft like this he’s scared of squishing him, of hurting himself too, in the process. 

“Get up, you lazy log, we’ve got things to do.”

So they do, they dress in different rooms, but Ronan’s shaves while Adam washes his face and they climb down the stairs together, a four legged animal that just learnt how to walk. Declan is putting his mug in the sink when they enter in the kitchen and he absentmindedly wishes them good morning as he takes a tiny duffel bag over his shoulder and says: “I’m going to the hospital,” which Adam doesn’t question on the moment, his brain is still carburating, but then he sits at the table and there’s a black cloud looming over Ronan’s head as he sips his coffee.

“Why’s Declan going to the hospital?” 

No answer.

“Does he _work_ there?” as much as this though is absurd to Adam (Declan doesn’t exactly have the bedside manners of a nurse or even a doctor) he didn’t exclude the possibility.

“It’s, he’s visiting our mother.” 

Adam doesn’t ask Ronan to elaborate, just sits next to him and nudges Ronan’s knees with his, decides that this confession is enough, for now. _One day,_ he tells himself, trying to forget that in a month and a half he will probably be somewhere else. 

They eat in silence, brush their teeth in silence and, while waiting for Matthew to wake up before picking up the eggs from the chicken coop, they feed the cows, in silence.

“A day or two,” Ronan says, patting down on her belly, “You ever helped a cow give birth?”

“No, not a cow. I used to work on a sheep farm.” 

Ronan hums, is about to say something when Matthew barges in with a basket full of eggs and hollers at them, asking where Declan is, the expression on Ronan’s face must be explicatory enough, since the cheer from the blond’s voice dissipates quick as it came. Adam is quite tired of getting interrupted by Ronan’s brothers, but he can’t really blame it on anyone, so he sighs and nods to him.  
  
“C’mon, I’ll make omelette for lunch.” 

* * *

  
  


On Sunday, Adam follows the Lynch brothers into the village and doesn’t enter the Church. Ronan raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t ask him questions, and Adam is left to himself for, well, for how long mass usually lasts, he wasn’t paying attention the last time. 

The village is tiny, like he remembers from the first time he exited the rackety bus, there’s a main street where most of the shops are situated, and he wanders mindlessly until he spots what looks like a ragged combination of three different buildings, the sign says _300 Fox Way, Antiquary_ and underneath there’s a dusty _open_ written in blocky letters; Adam remembers Blue’s offer, so he enters. 

The shop is as confused as the building was, there appears to be no specific order in which the objects are displayed and it looks more like an eccentric old lady’s house than an antiquary. The bell rings somewhat out of tune and Adam is surrounded by clocks and secretaires, black and white photographs and what looks like a collection of vintage movie posters, someone is at the counter, already looking at him with an impassive face.

“You work with the snake,” they say, accent thick and eyes not blinking once. “I will call Blue.”

Adam doesn’t have time to even question what that means before the person moves swiftly towards the back room, a flurry of pale blue robes and almost white hair. 

“Adam!” Blue’s voice rings loudly and a little out of breath, she is wearing the dungaree dress she had when they met the first time.

Adam waves awkwardly and shuffled closer. 

“Hi,” he says, not exactly sure what exactly compelled him to enter this weird place.

“Hope Persephone wasn’t rude to you, she’s, uh, difficult to understand, at times.”

“I… don’t think so?”

“Well, what brings you here?” Adam feels like he's already been asked this question.

He shrugs, behind Blue there is a wall full of empty frames, labelled with a price and he can’t focus on one thing because the moment he moves his eyes something different and equally weird is displayed.

“Don’t know, I was just… walking.”

“Well, I’ll make you some tea, how about that, come with me?” Blue gestures to the back room and Adam feels like he’s trespassing but he follows her nonetheless. He looks around, sees the same organised mess and who must be Persephone working at a low table with what looks like leather strings.

“Are you alright?” Blue has a kettle in her hands, is filling it with tap water, Adam didn’t even notice the small kitchenette overflowing with dirty mugs. The question sounds genuine, like Blue is the type of person who likes to know how people are doing and doesn’t just do small talk, as a rule.

“Huh? Yeah, I’m fine. Er, you?”

Blue laughs, takes two teabags from a drawer, _who stores tea in a drawer?_ , Adam asks himself, and puts them in two china cups that he’s scared of breaking  
  
“I’m good! You seemed a bit out of it, how’re you liking here? Still a month to go, huh?”  
  
“A month and a week, yeah, it’s, it’s fine, I like it, not a lot of things happen, which is nice, I guess.”  
  
“I think you’ll find out that surprisingly a lot of things happen here,” she pours the hot water then turns towards him, them “How’s your project going, Persephone?”  
  
“Almost done, yes.”

“That’s nice, you want sugar?”  
  
Adam can’t follow their conversation, doesn’t know what Blue meant by a lot of things, doesn’t understand who the snake is supposed to be.

“Yes, thank you, uhm.”  
  
“Alright, sit, then! How are Ronan’s cows? I heard the little one is about to give birth.”  
  
Adam sits, squished between Persephone, who’s sewing together what looks like a bracelet, it seems sturdy and the needle is very long, if she’s struggling she doesn’t show it. 

“Yes, in a few days.”  
  
Blue keeps asking questions and Adam answers them, eventually the ice in his bones tawes and the conversation flows more naturally, he learns that Blue’s boyfriend’s name is Richard but nobody calls him that, that he _really_ is studying history and that he was Ronan best friend, this he already knew, actually, because Ronan confessed to him, one night when they were sitting next to the pregnant heifer, that he knew he was gay after having spent a whole afternoon thinking about Gansey’s hands, Adam had laughed, shared his own epiphany in exchange, but he was secretly glad that this Richard wasn’t there, with them.

After a while, Persephone finishes her bracelet, gets up and returns with a bordeaux satchel, puts the leather bands inside and gives it to Adam.

“You will know what to do,” she says, her pale eyes reflecting the low light in the room, “even though I don’t like him,” she finished, and leaves.

Adam turns towards Blue and raises an eyebrow in question, satchel in his lap. Blue shrugs.  
  
“She says things like this most of the times, we don’t really question it. ‘Sides, she’s usually right.”  
  
“I see.” Adam looks at one of the several clocks hung over the wall and reasons he should walk back towards the church unless he wants to be left here. He says goodbye to Blue, who hugs him and pats him on the back with a little too much force, and then he’s out. The sky has cleared a bit, some grey clouds are still present on the horizons but he doesn’t think it will rain until late in the evening, and the weather is warm with the midday sun, but the air is still October crisp. 

The Lynch are already outside, a flood of people shaking hands and walking home, while Matthew holds Declan by the arm and Ronan is shuffling his foot on the ground. For once, they don’t look like they’re fighting, but they both have a scowl on their face and then Declan leaves with Matthew and Ronan kicks a pebble in the direction of a trash can. When he spots Adam, his expression clears a bit, but he doesn’t come nearer.

“What was that?” he asks him, Ronan shrugs again, and starts walking, the car is parked next to the grocery store, not the one they use to go to. 

“They’re going to the hospital, Matthew always wants to go after mass.”

“And you don’t want to go with them?”

Ronan shakes his head, hunches his shoulders and Adam is sure he’s pouting.

“I don’t like it, it’s pointless.”  
  
They’ve long surpassed the car when Adam notices that Ronan is walking all the way back to the Barns, so he asks, _do you want to walk all the way back_ , to which Ronan responds with a _Are you scared?_ And Adam cuffs him on the back of his neck, jogs a little so they’re walking side by side.

“Do you want to talk about it?”  
  
“I hate the fact that I probably should.”

“That’s what responsible adults would do.”  
  
Ronan makes a retching sound, then against all odds, takes Adam’s hand in his. It’s warm, probably because he was keeping it inside his pocket, but Adam likes to think that Ronan is generally a warm person and squeezes his hand trying to translate his trust into what Ronan understands best. 

This is what he finds most difficult: Ronan has grown up in a family where touch was always freely given, probably even more than words, and it never was malevolent. He told him his father would hoist him over his shoulder, his mother would kiss all of her children goodnight. Ronan and Declan would fight, but they would also hug and play, like brothers do. Adam never had that, had to learn how gentle touches worked and how affection wasn’t something to be worthy of, but something all encompassing. He’s learning, still, and Ronan is so unrestrained when it comes to touch that Adam feels like he’s getting lost behind. 

Ronan dislikes speaking, mostly because he made an oath to himself to never lie, which Adam doesn’t understand at all, but he’s always telling him something with the digits of his fingers, with his shoulders and knees. Even his nose, the only part of his body that’s always cold, shoved in the curve of his neck, where it rests after a long day. Adam tries to conceive the same trusts with his words, with hushed stories of trailer park tales and books he’s read, Ronan seems satisfied but he’s obviously angry (not at Adam, never at Adam) that he had to live all his life without the ability to distinguish a hand raised to caress from one raised to slap.

“She’s always had poor health, autoimmune disease I don’t remember the name of, but,” Adam gets closer to him as he speaks, the sun is at its peak and the wind has picked up, “after Matthew, she’s just gotten worse. Then our father died and she just. One day she didn’t wake up. We don’t know why, doctors are still trying to find out, most of the money from my father’s paintings are for her.” he takes a deep breath.

“This is why Declan thought we’d have to hire someone, ‘cus the heifer was pregnant and she’s had a miscarriage once, Declan found a job last summer and he didn’t like the cows in the first place, anyways,

“She’s still alive, but the chances of her waking up are… yet Matthew still wants to see her, every Sunday, and Declan goes too, and I love her, I do but I just can’t fucking bare the sight of her lying there, like she’s asleep and fine but, but it’s not fine.” 

Adam thinks he understands how he feels, in the way that he would probably have the same reaction. He also understands, from what little he knows, that being raised catholic and seeing your mother like this might lead to you questioning something about the faith in a god that allows such things to happen. Adam stops in his tracks, tugs Ronan towards him and envelops him in his arms. 

He tells him about his mother, how for a long period of time he thought they were victims of the same butcher, and how betrayed he felt, he feels, when she calls him for monthly payments and not even a kind word is spared. Adam says _I wish it didn’t hurt_ and Ronan tells him _she’s still you mom_ , and she is so Adam cries, a bit.

They’re in the middle of a dirt road, on one of the hills that surround the Barns and Adam thinks _I might have to keep this boy forever_ and Ronan is hugging him back, not crying, but tense in the way that indicates that he may. Like this, they’re the same height, but Ronan’s bulkier, his shoulder are broader and his skin is darker, Adam has seen enough pictures of his mother to know that he looks like her. In this moment, he feels like this is the right place for him, hands joined on Ronan’s head, knees brushing and chests plastered together. 

He holds him and doesn’t say anything, not until he feels Ronan lips on his shoulder, holds his pain inside his own chest.

“Let’s go, c’mon.”

* * *

  


The heifer gives birth one night, three days later than they had thought, she struggles and Ronan has to intervene, while Adam helps him and Declan is asleep. The calf is brown, scrawny, but the mother accepts it and starts licking it clean, it’s sniffing around, but its eyes are closed, and even if Adam is not used to calves and cows, he knows it’s not normal. Ronan says to wait a few hours, until it’s at least able to walk, before doing anything, meanwhile he takes its temperature and weights it, jots down its information. The calf is breathing fine, the mother is still cleaning it and she’s still plump and fat, so Ronan sits down, his legs literally giving out. He looks exhausted, probably because he didn’t sleep last night. 

Adam crouches down next to the animals, and gasps.  
  
“Lynch, c’mere.”  
  
Ronan says something like _what_ that sounds more like _wuh_ and doesn’t look at him, he’s washing his arm with a ragged towel dipped in water and alcohol, a mildly disgusted expression on his face.“Ronan, the calf has opened its eyes,” he says and Ronan gets up, crouches down and mutters a _holy shit_ under his breath. 

“They look like…”  
  
“It’s blind,” Ronan says, he doesn’t touch it, but he gets closer, crawls all the way almost under the heifer flank. They make a nice picture, like this, Ronan doesn’t look like a _farmer_ but he’s surprisingly good with animals, remembers the names Matthew gave to the chickens, treats his cows like one would treat their dog. 

“They look like opals,” Adam says, while Ronan is busy petting the cow, he doesn’t have the sweatshirt on, but inside it’s warm and he seems cozy, comfortable, not really bothered by the fact that the calf is blind. 

“What?”  
  
“Its eyes, they look like opals.” 

“Huh, you’re right.”  
  
Adam’s knees are starting to hurt, so he changes position, sits opposite of Ronan, crossed legs, knees touching, always touching. He moves out of the way when the mother has finished cleaning it and is nudging it to stand. Adam feels like crying, and doesn’t know what to do.

Ronan looks closely, but the calf, even blind, is able to stand, is sniffing around in search of the mother’s milk and this is when Ronan gently nudges it in the right direction. It starts sucking the moment it's close enough, he sits back, next to Adam.

“She’s a girl.”  
  
“Aren’t you worried?”  
  
“That she’s a girl?”  
  
“No, stupid, that she’s blind.”  
  
Ronan shrugs, to be honest he looks a bit worried, but he’s calm like he rarely is, always buzzing with restless activity. 

“Declan’s going to be mad, ‘cus we won’t be able to sell her but-

“You didn’t want to sell it, her in the first place, did you?”  
  
“No, I didn’t, ‘cus y’never know where they’ll end, but now she’s here, we’ll help you, won’t we?”  
  
The calf is still drinking, Ronan’s voice doesn’t change but he’s kind with them, and Adam thinks of the word love and how this feeling is eating him from the insides, he doesn’t think something so scary should feel so good. They’ve known each other for two months, and he’s dreading the time that passes, can’t stop thinking about having to go, and then about Blue’s words and how she told him about her boyfriend who’s far away but she doesn’t care, or she does and just has learnt to live with it. Adam is not ready to give up on something he has yet to comprehend fully. 

“Alright, Parrish, time to sleep.” 

Ronan makes sure that there’s extra bedding in the calving box, closes the windows and puts a clean blanket down, Adam smiles and takes his hand, habits by now.

They enter inside, walk all the way towards what’s now Adam’s room and fall into bed together, still dressed except for their pants. Ronan is sitting up when he takes off his shirt, Adam is used to this, Ronan runs hot and tends to shed whatever shirt he’s wearing during the night either way, but now, when he turns to kill the light, Adam’s eyes widen almost comically. 

“Lynch, what the fuck,” he sits up and has to take a double look, he knew the tattoo must’ve been big, but it literally takes all his back and Adam cannot believe that he managed to hide it for this long.

Ronan chuckles, oddly pleased, and shuts the light. He turns and pushes Adam down, hand on his chest. 

“That’s a big tattoo.”  
  
“Indeed. Declan almost had an aneurysm. I’ll tell you what it means tomorrow.”

Adam knows Ronan doesn’t lie, so he closes his eyes, and falls asleep.

* * *

_Telling him what it means_ implies another trek into the woods, Declan leaves early in the morning, like he always does, Ronan told him about his job at the town hall, described as _soulless_ and _disgusting_ and other very colorful epithets mumbled with a scrunched up nose, so they dress warmly, in layers, and Adam has to borrow a shirt because they forgot to do the washing. Before leaving they check on the calf, Ronan has started calling her Opal because he’s sweet and he hates being reminded of that fact, his face darkens prettily and Adam kisses his cheeks with loud smacking sounds, which embarrass him even more, continues until Ronan starts tickling him and they fall on the ground; when they spot her asleep next to her mother, they gently close the door and start walking.  
  
They reach the stump, and the circle of trees that works as a barrier between the darker parts of the forests, Adam notices several pieces of bark lying on the ground, all engraved by an expert hand, remembers how Ronan cannot sit still for the sake of his life and always has to have something to do with his hands. They don’t stop there, Ronan leads him deeper in the woods, walks blindly and avoids exposed roots without even looking down. 

“Is this where you bring all the boys to impress them?” 

Ronan snorts, doesn’t answer and keeps walking. The unnatural silence of the forest dissipates when they reach another clearing, there’s a creek merrily gurgling and what looks like a gazebo made out of broken tree branches, that barely holds its shape together, underneath the missing roof there’s a stone, something written on it.

“My parents got married here,” Ronan tells him and he stops in front of the stone.

 _Unguibus et rostro_ it says, Ronan translates it as tooth and nails, but the actual meaning, the literal translation has something to do with birds and boats, Ronan tries to explain it to him, Adam just doesn’t understand why the Lynch family is so obsessed with latin. 

“So the reason you have a crow,” _Raven_ , Ronan corrects immediately, “a _raven_ on your back is this? And the celtic knot?”

“The celtic knot is because we’re Irish, dumbass,” Ronan bumps his shoulder, “part of the reason for the raven is this, yes, mainly I wanted to do something that pissed off Declan and spending seven hundred dollars on a tattoo seemed to be the best idea ever.”  
  
“Part of the reason?”

“You’ll see,” says Ronan, Adam is mesmerised by the ability of these people to say the weirdest things while making them sound reasonable. Ronan makes a low, guttural sound, startling Adam. The next moment a big, black raven deposits itself onto the stone, preening its wings and hopping from side to side.

“What,” Adam says, not even questioning. Ronan tells him, while offering something Adam can’t see from his hands, the raven pecking gently, that she (because apparently the raven’s a she) has started appearing the day of his father’s death. He ran away, and got lost, the raven probably thought he was dead meat, but she stayed with him until the police found him, and reappears whenever Ronan calls for her. Her name’s Chainsaw.

“Chainsaw.”  
  
Ronan darkens, embarrassed.  
  
“I was sixteen.”  
  
“You... wait, Lynch this is so freaking weird. You got lost, right? And, and you stumble upon this place, which by the way doesn’t _at all_ look like some sacrificial altar, and an _honest to God_ _raven_ just? Keeps you company? And you’ve named her Chainsaw.”

“When you put it in that perspective it does sound weird.”  
  
“The perspective of a sane, rational person, yes.”

“Man, I don’t know what to tell you, ravens are very smart animals, I never questioned it,” Ronan shrugs with a nonchalance foreign to Adam.  
  
“I can’t believe this, you’re so weird. This place is so weird. Is this where you went all the times you left the Barns?”  
  
He nods, Chainsaw is still pecking at his fingers, but it looks affectionate. It’s clear Ronan wants to tell him something else, so he waits, because rushing Ronan can either end in two ways, and neither of those are something Adam wants to happen. 

“I know you, uhm, you don’t believe in God or anything like that, but. To me, this, it told me something,” Chainsaw hops around, happily cackling and pecking at the beetles on the ground, she really looks comfortable around the two of them.

“I’m not trying... I don’t want to argue on this, I’m trying to explain, alright?” Adam nods, he wasn’t thinking of arguing in the first place, “I _was_ suicidal, Declan was right, and I think, at that time I think she was like a message or something and I just accepted it, her, I did some fucked up things, I’m still fucked up, but I’m alive, and I wanted to remind myself of that. 

Adam takes this confession with his two stretched hands, he understands what he means and he obviously has to rationalise it because God was never a variable in his life’s equation, and he doesn’t want to invalidate Ronan’s faith, and he doesn’t know what to say. He stands and watches this raven boy, clears eyes and maimed left thumb, petting a huge bird, deep voice and gentle touch. 

“I’m glad that you’re alive,” Adam tells him, because he feels like he has to tell him the truth and so he does, “you’re not fucked up.”  
  
Ronan snorts, “Parrish-

“No, listen,” he turns towards him, looks him in the eyes, “you’re not fucked up, and, and if you are then I’m also fucked up, and I think I deserve that title more than you do. Something bad happened to you, you were _sixteen_ ,” Adam doesn’t know how to end the sentence, but understands the meaning of wanting it to stop and of being young and scared, so he hugs Ronan and Chainsaw squeaks indignantly, flies on top of a tree. Ronan hugs him back.

“I’m sorry, I just. You make me want to-

“I know, it’s the same for me.” 

Adam squishes Ronan’s cheeks, offers a trembling smile and kisses him, where his parents got married and his freakish raven pet is still watching them. It feels like redemption.  
  


* * *

After days of procrastinating work, of doing nothing but quite literally rolling in the fields, even with the cold ground and hard grass, the Camaro is, at last, fixed, in the sense that Adam did what he could with what he had, and when Ronan turns the engine on, it actually works. He lets out a _whoop_ and tells Adam to hop in; Adam laughs, tells him that he quite likes his bones inside his body, and Ronan pouts. The heavy weight of the tarp of secrets no longer follows them, it’s easier to talk and touch comes easier to Adam, too, he still panics, sometimes, when he doesn’t hear Ronan walk behind him, or feels constricted, claustrophobic, when he hugs him too tight during the night. Ronan understands better, talks more and scowls less, he’s still sharp, not dulled, but he doesn’t looks like he’s walking on eggs anymore. It might also have to do with the fact that it’s almost Ronan’s birthday and Matthew’s presence tames the knifelike presence of the brothers, Adam doesn’t dislike Declan, finds him quite pleasant to be around, but for the sake of Ronan they don’t really talk about him. Ronan is skittish with displays of affection when they’re not alone, but Adam thinks the eldest Lynch might have caught up with the situation, if the looks he sometimes sends in his direction (not bad-natured, just kind of suspicious, and Adam hopes, glad) mean anything.

On the first day of November, Adam wakes up with a boy in his arms and the satchel Persephone gave him weeks ago on the windowsill. His brain is still riddled with sleep, but her words resonate in his head and he’s not surprised to find out that she was right, indeed. He knows what to do. 

When Ronan wakes up, he feels an electric hum deep insides his organs that compels him to squeeze and kiss and hold until he grunts, but the side of his mouth twitches and Adam’s already halfway there, but the pressure inside his kneecaps explode and he wishes Ronan a happy birthday, to better days, to a hundred of parties. 

“I’ve got you a gift,” he says, doesn’t know how to explain, but Ronan sits up and watches him with keen eyes.

The bracelet fits, Adam has had enough practice with holding Ronan’s hands to know that it would’ve been too big on his arm, and he has space for one, wondering thought before Ronan kisses him full on the mouth, tender and agonizing in the way only twenty day of this remain, and they both know it, and they both try to forget it, push the conversation in the furthest corner of the house beneath a pile of dirty laundry and never finished books. Ronan asks him where he got it, Adam says it’s a secret, one he doesn’t mind not sharing, and they smile, like silly boys who’ve got forever in front of them.

They don’t celebrate his birthday as much as they just spend the day cooped up inside the animal stead, Opal struggles a bit but her mom is always there to help her, walks just fine if she’s confined inside four walls. The vet told them she might be able to see some shadows, but that she’s as fit as a fiddle, happy like few calves she ever saw. 

Ronan dotes on her like she’s a kitten, a puppy, equal parts gentle and worried, makes sure she’s eating enough, forces Adam to feed her because he’s smitten like that, and then they listen to Matthew talk about school mates, and how he won the tennis tournament, they’re in the middle of a very endearing story about a stray dog one of his roommates smuggled in when Declan enters the barn, pale and evidently bearing bad news. He looks pained, Adam shifts naturally towards Ronan, who sets his jaw and looks like the boy he first met, fresh out of the shower.

Declan says: _it was the hospital_ and they know.

* * *

Adam waits outside with Matthew, a cup of coffee in his hands and knees almost hitting the low table. There’s an empyrean atmosphere, Adam’s been in and out of a hospital once and he wasn’t very conscious to exactly remember what has happened, but Matthew looks like he’s been around since he was a child, greets nurses by name and doctors by surname, he’s short and his feet dangle from his seat, the mop of blond hair cut short few days ago shine sunder the halogenic lights and Adam understands the devotion his two older brothers have for him.

“Are you and my brother together?”

“Huh?”  
  
“You and Ronan, not Declan, he has a girlfriend, I think.”

“Er, yeah,” he clears his voice, finds no point in denying it, “yes, we are.”  
  
Matthew nods, seems oddly pleased of the answer he got, “I’m glad,” is all he says.

* * *

Declan and Ronan spend a few hours inside a yellow room, Adam can figure what it means by extrapolating the context and applying general rules of social workers and adult talk. Matthew gets invited inside, too, probably just to avoid screaming and shouting in a place of religious, silent despair, so he goes and Adam is left alone, thinks how unfair it is, and then Ronan is out and he sits in front of him, his eyes red rimmed and his forehead tunks with an empty sound on the table.

“I think, she might’ve wanted us to end… it,” Adam lets him speak, like he does, takes his hands and holds on tight. 

“She liked to be scandalous, unorthodox, my father said, more Irish than catholic.”  
  
“What does Declan think?” Ronan snorts, raises his head. He has the face of someone who came to terms with death a long time ago, doesn’t look all that destroyed. He reasons, Ronan’s lived part of his life in this perspective. Adam remembers hushed talks about angels and time and how Ronan loves God in his own way, a God who sacrificed his son for the atonement of humanity and who values self mutilation, he links his fingers with Adam’s.

“He agrees, actually. Wanted to know what Matthew thought, I…” 

“Is it bad if I say that I want it to be over?” 

Adam thinks it through, doesn’t know his place but has enough confidence in himself to know that Ronan actually values his opinion on this. Ronan is biting the leather bands Persephone sew together, his thumb left untouched.

“I think you’re allowed to your own feelings, to be selfish, even. You’re human, Ronan.”

He nods, bites his lip and Adam would kiss him there, but stops himself and sends a threadbare thought towards a concept he’s been trying to circumnavigate for the last two months. For now, it’s enough.

* * *

Matthew insists for a traditional Irish wake, after three days spent in the hospital, Declan organizes everything and there’s an awful cheerfulness in their words, in their steps, they invite some close friends, too. Ronan explains to him how it works, says their mother might’ve not been Irish by blood, but she took in stride their father’s spirit, tells him that wakes are usually full of laughter and happiness, the dead in a better place. Adam stays by his side, death always is a sad ordeal, but this feels like relief. 

On the day of the wake the body is laid in a casket, rosaries curled in her hands, Blue and Maura, her mother, are talking to Declan, there’s Persephone, too, who’s opening a window and turning a mirror and Matthew’s explaining to her something in French, which he apparently studies at school. The pale woman has eyed Ronan’s arm once, with distaste, but when her eyes met his she nodded, and turned towards the younger Lynch.

Then, there’s Gansey, who came down for the break but is also Ronan’s best friend, and he’s currently talking to him, arm over his shoulder, and Adam understands, suddenly, how Ronan felt, how Blue feels. 

He’s not tall, but his presence is important, it feels as if all the lights naturally gravitate towards him, then Ronan nods in Adam’s direction and Gansey’s mouth blooms in a grin. Ronan shoves him away, turns towards Blue who hugs him, and Ronan doesn’t hold back. There’s music in the background, candles lit and enough food to feed the entire village, and Adam’s watching Gansey approach him as a criminal watches the executioner.

He offers his hand, greets him with a charming air one has to be born with. Adam shakes it, turns down the uneasy green sensation rising inside his stomach and forces a smile.

“Ronan tells me you’re the one who fixed my Camaro, eternally grateful about that, by the way,” Adam says _yeah, that’s me_ then Gansey, a twinkle in his eye, asks him, “Say, what do you know about Welsh kings?” Blue groans, in the background.

* * *

They bury her one day later, it is a quiet affair and it ends as the clouds give away to a gentle drizzle, it’s cold and grey, but Ronan is holding his hand and Adam has one of Declan suits. As the casket is lowered into the earth a prayer is said, in the distance a raven cackles and Ronan’s hands contracts in his, gaze lifted upwards and Adam wants to believe in spirits and angels a little bit, in that moment.

After, they go to a pub, as per tradition. Blue and Gansey follow, Ronan looks younger with the two of them, Matthew orders a pint and nobody, not even the server, tells him no. 

Sitting at a long table, thigh pressed against Ronan’s, Adam fixes his shirt, spins possible futures and pasts, different versions of this boy who’s describing a sunburnt-thirteen-year-old-Gansey digging what he thought was an ancient Roman ruin and then almost dying because of a bee (Adam knows that’s when they met Blue, too) and doesn’t understand how his life took this unforeseen turn, but as Ronan wraps up his story, an ache still visible inside his eyes, a scar just now starting to itch, he thinks he’s alright with not knowing, with this strange group of friends and relatives, the sand finally settles on the riverbed.

* * *

Ronan takes his hand and leads him inside his room, it’s not the first time he’s seen it, but it feels different now. There’s the old car toy his father carved him, and one next to it he carved himself, a bit more jagged. There’s a quilt his mother sew, there’s a chair full of clothes Adam always eyes with distaste, the trashcan full of red bull cans and ink stained tissues, a rosary hung above his bed frame. Ronan sits down, mattress giving out under his weight the slats creaking and moaning. 

Adam slots himself inside his thighs, Ronan’s exhausted like he usually is, but there’s something more mature hidden in the way he huffs and grabs the back of his knees, hands gripping and releasing, forehead in between his ribcage, nose almost dipping inside his navel. They fit, a bit rough against the edges, it’s a shivering sensation crawling inside his vertebrae, following a crack on the wall all the way to the window, left open for the sake of no one but the chill of the night and the spirits that may have yet to leave the house. It’s a stump in the belly of a hushed, understood forest, it’s a raven that flies over their joined heads, the conversation they have to have sits heavy on their tongue. 

“Do you want me to stay?” Adam asks, what he means is: _I might love you, tell me to stay._

“Adam, I don’t want you to go,” Ronan answers, says, with teeth and nails, with hands and kisses, “Please stay.”

**Author's Note:**

> title comes from richard sikens 'cause this is what's up.
> 
> You can pinpoint the moment I started to become insane while writing this and I think that's very sexy of me, as always all mistakes are my own and yadda yadda well! this is pure indulgence on my part, I'm sorry if it comes off as rushed in certain parts, it sure felt like that to me, but it's probably because it takes me ages to analyze one single emotion. Also, most of the things that have happened in this story also happened to me in one variation or another, it probably tells a lot about me as a person but I hope y'all like it!


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